


The Holiday

by Nakeycatstakebaths



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Chef Bellamy, Emori Bellamy and Octavia are found family, F/M, Festive fic, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Light Angst, Madi and Charlotte are his daughters, Murphy is a giant softie, Musician Murphy, Romantic Comedy, Romantic Fluff, Single Parent Bellamy Blake, THIS IS EXACTLY 50/50 FOR BOTH SHIPS, Teacher Emori, The Holiday AU, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Writer Clarke, dummies to lovers, idiots to lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 05:42:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28523394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nakeycatstakebaths/pseuds/Nakeycatstakebaths
Summary: When in doubt, move across the globe and trade lives with a perfect stranger...makes perfect sense, right?After being cheated on and thoroughly embarrassed by her boyfriend and left with a career that makes her feel ill every time she thinks about it, Clarke wants absolutely nothing to do with Los Angeles. On a whim, she signs up for AirBnB swap and meets Emori Blake. Emori is underemployed, unhappy, newly single, and after a public humiliation at the university Christmas party, leaving England sounds like a welcome change.Desperate for a chance at a new beginning, they slip into each other’s worlds and leave their woes behind. Along the way, they might just find that a change was just what the doctor ordered.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin, Emori/John Murphy (The 100)
Comments: 23
Kudos: 73
Collections: The t100 Writers for BLM Initiative





	The Holiday

**Author's Note:**

  * For [changingthefairy_tale](https://archiveofourown.org/users/changingthefairy_tale/gifts).



> *Loosely based on the film of the same name* 
> 
> Sorry, this isn't exactly timely in regard to Christmas, but I hope this fic leaves you with a little holiday cheer!!! 
> 
> HUGE MASSIVE ENORMOUS thank you to Madison, my love, my writing commune buddy, and one of my favorite people for prompting me this little guy! It brings me so much joy to gift this to you on A03! I adore you friend!

_Clarke_

Clarke flipped the script over in her lap, allowing a few papers to flutter to the floor. 

The movie industry was slowly but surely slithering down the drain. How exactly she’d gone from writing something that won an Oscar to “A Christmas Queen: A Baby Makes Three,” was still somewhat of a mystery. But this movie would make a killing, so she couldn’t exactly complain. 

Whether or not it creatively killed her in the process was yet to be seen. 

Leaving the finished, atrocious script on the table in her study, Clarke headed back to bed. Typically, 3 a.m. was her peak creativity hour, but inspiration didn’t seem readily available tonight. 

Her cat slinked behind her, bumping against her heels as she strode through the dark corridor. Post-writing sleep was the best kind of sleep, and she was excited to sink into bed. 

Except—

The bed was empty. 

Where the hell did Finn go? 

Where did he have to go in the dead of night? 

She’d just walked through the entire house and hadn’t seen him draped on any couches or heard anything coming from the kitchen. 

It couldn’t hurt to do another lap. 

“Cmon Jinkies,” she whispered, hauling up the white, fluffy cat in her arms as she turned to do another sweep of her house. 

Truthfully, she should downsize. There was no need to have this much space. This had been an impulse buy, back when she’d been enamored with the idea of creating a life that would impress her mom. Now though, all she had was a stainless steel white palace and a matching cat. 

Even after visiting every room in the house, Finn was nowhere to be found. 

There was really only one answer for where he could be at 4:00 in the morning, and the truth of it made Clarke’s blood boil. 

***

  
Perched at the counter, with a cup of black coffee cradled in her palms, Clarke waited for the telltale click of the door. 

She felt like a mob boss, with her cat in her lap, in her favorite leather barstool. 

“Good morning, sunshine,” she said as her missing boyfriend rolled through the door. 

He jumped, obviously taken aback by her presence, dropping an iced coffee on her newly waxed marble floors. 

With a raised eyebrow, Clarke threw a rag at him. Her anger from earlier still simmering under her skin. She couldn’t believe him, that he’d not only snuck out in the middle of the night but also gone to get coffee and not brought her any. 

The audacity.

“Sorry, I had to go make sure that Cassidy calibrated the projector correctly,” Finn said, flopping the soaked rag into the run and pouring a fresh cup of coffee for himself. 

The excuse alone further fueled Clarke’s anger, so much so that she couldn’t even bear to look at him. With her cat tucked under her arm, she strode out of the kitchen, shoulder checking Finn in the process. 

“Did you sleep badly or something?” Finn scowled, following her up the stairs. 

Usually, Clarke was a direct person. She wasn’t one for passive aggressiveness or the silent treatment. But she knew that whatever she did next had to be very, very calculated. The last thing she needed was him trying to convince her that she was the crazy one here. 

She made it all the way to the library before she finally turned to face him, allowing Jinkies to slip from her grasp and land gracefully on the couch. 

“No, I’m just wondering if you suddenly reallocated the projector to the inside of Cassidy’s apartment, since ya know, that’s where you were last night,” Clarke shrugged, finally meeting Finn’s eyes. 

And the look on his face said it all. It was all she needed to confirm her suspicions. 

“She just got a little confused, and I—“ 

“Are you seriously trying to keep this shit going?” 

“We’re coworkers! I don’t know what else you want me to say. You’re crazy.” 

There it was. She knew it was coming, and it still caught her off guard. All this time, she’d found Finn’s boldness endearing. She liked the cockiness. But now, it made her want to slap him. 

“Did you sleep with her?” Clarke asked, knowing that a direct question was the only way to keep the conversation on track. 

But of course, the excuses just kept rolling. 

“I asked you a straightforward question, a softball if you will. Did you sleep with her? Yes or no,” she said slowly, like he would miraculously decide to own up to his shit. 

Instead of answering, Finn ran a hand through his hair and stormed out of the bedroom. 

Clarke followed, still fuming as he tried to turn the conversation around on her, that she was paranoid and crazy. 

“Honestly, I would tell you to go fuck yourself, but it seems like you’re doing enough fucking already,” she snapped when they finally reached the bedroom. Grabbing a jacket off the nearest chair, she threw it at Finn’s face. 

She’d moved past betrayed, left heartbroken so far in the rearview mirror that it was barely an afterthought. 

After two years. 

He’d cheated on her. 

And he couldn’t even own up to it. 

Really, it should’ve been obvious. Nobody needed as much help as this Cassidy seemed to. But she’d trusted him, had apparently either slept through or written through every instance where he’d slipped out for an evening with his other girlfriend. 

God knows how long this had been going on. 

She felt like an idiot. 

And perhaps that’s why it hurt as much as it did. 

She’d trusted him, hadn’t doubted him for even a second...but he’d let her down, just like everyone else. 

Part of her was convinced this was proof that she was better off alone. Love never seemed to serve her well. Men were just more trouble than they were worth. 

Needing an outlet for all her frustration, for the sting of rejection, she threw another shirt at his face and then reached for more, sending one thing after another flying in his direction. 

“Clarke, oh my God! Stop it,” Finn yelped, catching a shoe before it hit him in the face. 

But she just kept going, ignoring him entirely. 

“Can we talk about this,” he continued, scrambling to pick up his clothes as Clarke emptied them one by one from the closet. 

And that was enough to finally make her stop. 

“So now we’re owning up to this? Now we’re talking?” She said, setting a shirt back on the chaise lounge.

“Seriously? Now we’re being petty?” 

“You cheated on me for our entire relationship, but yeah, I’m the petty one,” she yelled, shifting from throwing shirts to stuffing them into an old Nordstrom bag.

The idea that Finn’s stuff was anywhere in the house suddenly disgusted her. 

“You aren’t a victim, Clarke,” Finn snapped, finally, for the first time, showing an ounce of emotion. “We haven’t been dating for years. We’ve been dating for six months because before that, you barely acknowledged me in public.” 

“Don’t try to turn this around on me!” 

“I’m not, but I’m saying it takes two to tango.” 

“What the fuck does that mean!?” 

“It means that you’re kind of emotionless. I never know where I stand with you. So yeah, maybe cheating for the past six months makes me a dick. But don’t pretend like we’ve been together for the past two years!” 

At that, Finn shrugged smugly, like he’d won some sort of argument. In reality, he’d proved her right. He had been cheating on her this whole time, but he seemed far more concerned with proving his point. 

The look on his face made Clarke even madder. He was trying to make this seem like her fault. 

“Don’t you think it’s weird that we’re breaking up right now, and you haven’t shed a single tear? All you’re doing is throwing shit at me.” 

And that—finally pushed Clarke over the edge. 

“Screw you,” she spat, throwing the last shoe at him. “And get the hell out of my house.

She all but chased him out the door, tossing the crumpled Nordstrom bag behind him. 

When she hadn’t anticipated was Miller and Harper waiting on the doorstep, ready to talk through her script. 

They looked unsurprised at the sight of a slightly unhinged Clarke and the cowering Finn, taking a step aside as he ran toward his sports car. 

“For the record, I never liked him,” Miller shrugged, waving his fingers at her now ex-boyfriend while he sped off down the long driveway. 

Both he and Harper high fived before following her back into the house. 

“Slight change of plans,” Clarke said, waving for them to join her in the kitchen. “I need a major change of pace.” 

The script edits could wait, possibly forever. 

Today put a lot of things into perspective, mainly that Clarke no longer wanted to spend her life in a glass palace, with a job she couldn’t stand and a boyfriend who treated her like she was disposable. 

She needed to get some space from her own life. 

_***_  
_Emori_

“There’s unimaginable beauty in numbers,” Emori sighed, allowing her marker to glide against the glass as the numbers flowed through her. 

She knew it sounded silly, that her students were snickering at how enamored she seemed with an equation. But math had always been her safe space, the place where she felt the most like herself. Numbers always behave the way you anticipate they will. They do exactly what they’re supposed to and produce the outcome you align for them. 

If only people were that easy. 

“Very few people understand the value of predictability until you have the rug pulled out from under you. But once you have, you’ll see why this equation is such a marvel.” 

The telltale scratch of pencils on paper told her that the kids hadn’t absorbed a word of her life wisdom but rather, were entirely focused on solving the equation she set up. 

Typical. 

Final review sessions were probably not the time to drop her philosophies, but she’d been in a mood lately. 

“Okay, that’s all I have for you. Your exam will be proctored by the TA later today,” Emori sighed, leaning back against her desk. “I’ll be in my office until 3 if you have any questions. I hope you all have a Merry Christmas!” 

And with that, the class dispersed, leaving her alone once again. 

She took the time to complete the math, to allow the numbers to fall into place, to weave together into a single, satisfying integer. 

“That was a nice little speech you gave earlier, almost inspired,” Roan chuckled, rising up from a chair in the back corner, right beside the door. 

Emori hadn’t even seen him come in. 

She hated that the sight of him still sent a shiver down her spine, that even after everything, she still longed to wrap her arms around him. 

But he wasn’t hers to hold anymore, at least that’s what she’d heard through the grapevine. 

“I’ll see you at the faculty party tonight, won’t I?” Roan smirked, winking at her before he disappeared through the door. 

And well—apparently, she wasn’t as over him as she thought. 

Thankfully, nobody came to her office hours, and she spent the rest of the morning and afternoon browsing for dresses online. If nobody had issues with the exam, she had just enough time to pick up her order from the store and get ready. 

She’d found a flowy black cocktail dress with a sweetheart neckline and a matching shawl to cover her shoulders. 

It was perfect, the exact blend of sweet and a little bit sexy, the kind of thing that Roan always told her she looked good in. 

Despite knowing that it wasn’t exactly right, she wanted him to look at her like he had earlier, like he still wanted her too. 

And maybe he did, maybe there was still hope. 

This was the problem with relationships. They weren’t predictable, so she would just have to wait and see. 

***

  
_Clink clink clink_

The president of the university tapped her glass, introducing herself and delving into a speech thanking everyone for a great year. 

Emori smoothed her dress, taking a glass of wine from a nearby tray, just to have something to do with her hands. 

Anya was nowhere to be found, and without anyone to talk to, Emori felt horribly out of place. 

Last year, she’d spent the entire party with Roan, whispering and dancing and sharing bites of food and glasses of wine. 

But he, too, seemed to be oddly missing. 

Until he reappeared beside the president, wearing a perfectly pressed suit, with a broad smile on his face. 

“To continue the festive mood, I have another very exciting announcement. Please raise your glasses to toast the new dean of the college of sciences,” and with a flourish, she gestured to Roan. 

Emori’s jaw almost hit the floor. Soft spot aside, Roan was barely qualified to be the department's chair, let alone the entire college. He had no published research, no work experience outside academia, and barely taught two intro classes. 

Indeed a baffling choice. 

There was also the sting of being looked over again, of being massively qualified and sitting in a mid-level role while her ex soared to the top. 

She downed her glass and grabbed another, just in time for the icing on the cake. 

“This is such an honor, especially considering my recent engagement. I’m feeling very blessed,” Roan smiled, waving his hand for Echo to join him on stage, a large, sparkling diamond sitting on her ring finger. 

And that was the final straw. 

Engaged. 

Just three months after he’d broken up with Emori. 

It was too much to manage, the weight of all her disappointment. 

She suddenly felt stupid in her black dress, hidden in the corner of the party with nobody to talk to. 

All the work she’d done to get over him, the meditation, lighting weird candles, listening to motivational podcasts, it unfurled in a fraction of a second. 

When Roan’s eyes met hers, for the brief moment where he paused and flashed her a wink, Emori knew that she wasn’t over him. 

It felt like she would never get over him.

She couldn’t handle any more, their bright smiles, the cheers and congratulations, and the light pop of a champagne bottle. 

Just like always, Emori vanished into the shadows, drawing her shawl more tightly around her shoulder as she strode out of the office and into the street. 

It was snowing, a gross slushy kind of snow and the cold seeped into her skin while she waited for her Uber. 

With nothing but her thoughts to keep her company, Emori wondered why she never seemed to be enough, why the only man she’d loved had not only cheated on her but decided to marry someone else. 

Maybe she was built to simply exist, not to love or to thrive, but to move through each day and never do anything out of the ordinary. 

Everyone couldn’t be destined for greatness. 

A beat-up Kia picked her up, and the driver winced when he saw her address pop-up, mumbling about country folk as he turned into the expressway. 

Emori leaned back in her seat, willing the tears to stay in her eyes while she watched the city blur past, shifting from tall buildings and bright lights to the soft glow of her quiet village. 

The car skid to a stop in front of Bellamy’s house. After the nights she’d had, she didn’t want to be alone. 

“Aunt ‘Mori!” Charlotte said brightly, greeting her with a bright smile and welcome comforting hug after the worst night in recent memory. 

The door dwarfed her, and Emori helped her ease it all the way open, stepping inside without much pretense. She scooped her niece up, carrying her to where Bellamy and Madi were draped on the couch, surrounded by biscuit wrappers and juice boxes. 

“Wild night?” she teased, settling into an armchair with Charlotte in her lap. An old episode of The Brady Bunch hummed in the background, warm and familiar. 

It was a relief to be somewhere comfortable, to be able to toe-off her shoes and spend the evening with her family. 

Even if she and Bellamy weren’t related by blood, he was the closest thing she had to a brother. He knew her better than almost anyone else, and apparently, he could tell she was upset. 

Every so often, she caught a concerned stare out of the corner of her eye, but she ignored it, choosing to focus on the episode and Charlotte’s quiet giggles. 

“Okay girls, bedtime,” Bellamy announced, tickling Madi until she rolled off the couch in a fit of giggles as the final credits started. 

He was, of course, met with a chorus of protests, but eventually, the girls agreed, resigning themselves to the inevitable. 

Emori watched them vanish up the stairs bracing herself for what was coming next. 

“What’s wrong?” Bellamy asked, not even bothering to soften the question. 

As much as she didn’t want to talk about it, she couldn’t deny that it felt good to have someone who cared. Bellamy was always good at this, at making people feel seen. After a lifetime of being invisible, Emori knew what a rare trait that was. 

But it came with the added catch that it was hard to keep secrets from him. He always managed to wrestle them out of her. 

“People aren’t math problems,” she sighed, just as the tears started rolling down her cheeks. She would have been embarrassed, but frankly, Bellamy had seen her in worse shape than this. 

“Well, yeah,” he said gently, kneeling down beside her and placing a comforting hand on her arm. The kindness behind the gesture just made her cry harder. 

She explained her terrible day, how Roan had flirted with her and then proceeded to accept a job he was grossly unqualified for and introduce his new fiancé to the party 

“I think I just have to accept that I’m ordinary,” Emori sighed, curling up in the armchair and propping her chin on her hands. “And that magical things don’t happen to ordinary people.”

Bellamy gave her a soft smile, one that took Emori back to the day he and Octavia stumbled into her life and promptly decided she was family. 

“You aren’t ordinary,” he chuckled, rolling his eyes like she’d said the most ridiculous thing in the world. “But maybe you need a change of pace?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Like, a vacation?” Bellamy continued, holding up a nearby picture of himself and the girls at the beach. “When’s the last time you let yourself have a break?” 

“With what money, Bell?” Emori groaned, sinking further into the chair and scrubbing her face with her hands. Truthfully, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d left London—hell, she’d never left England at all. It’s always felt so out of reach, like something people other than her did. Even with Octavia living in Paris, the thought of leaving the country had never crossed Emori’s mind. 

But Bellamy seemed undeterred, always an optimist, and he ignored her protests, keeping his attention to his phone. 

Finally, after a long beat of silence, he turned his phone to show her a webpage. 

“It’s called Airbnb Swap. O and Lincoln did it after their wedding. All you have to do is pay for your flight, and then you switch houses with a stranger for a month!” He explained excitedly, scrolling through the main page. 

And well, it wasn’t the worst idea she’d ever heard. 

_***_  
_Clarke_

The closing scene from the Notebook played on Clarke’s massive home theatre screen. She’d already tried to watch The Titanic, A Walk to Remember, and The Vow. This was her last-ditch effort. 

No tears through, not even a tickle in her eye. 

She stared at the screen, trying desperately to feel something, to will herself to cry. 

It wasn’t as if she’d never done it before. In the abstract, she understood how she was supposed to feel. But that part of her heart felt like it picked up and walked away, leaving her behind to be doomed without tears. 

The credits rolled, and Clarke threw a tissue at the TV, undimming the lights as she reached to check her phone. 

To her surprise, she was met with a little red notification on her AirBnB app. 

Miller and Harper talked her into it, said that it would be exactly the kind of change she needed. Less mess and less stress if she didn’t have to find herself a hotel and a car. 

She didn’t expect much to come of it, and most of the messages she’d gotten were from creeps and weirdos or from people who wanted her to trade her house for a yurt. 

It felt a little like online dating in a way, trying to make her house seem as enticing as possible, ordering and reordering the photos until they were in an acceptable order. 

She tried to avoid pictures of herself, less because she thought someone would recognize her and more to avoid creepy men. So the profile picture was one of Jinkies—a rather dignified one at that. 

The person who’d messaged her had used their cat as well, a little orange tabby with fluffy ears, and it was immediately endearing. 

Emori Blake from England. 

Her house was cute, picturesque even, a stone cottage surrounded by ivy and decorated with a mix of white twinkling and rainbow lights. The inside seemed cozy and kitschy, with vintage couches and hand-embroidered cushions. Pretty much the exact opposite of Clarke’s white, minimalist mansion. 

This was the kind of change she’d hoped for, a quiet trip to the English countryside, the perfect backdrop for a reset. 

Emori seemed to feel the same way, that L.A., for whatever reason was a place she wanted to call home. 

Maybe this was crazy, but Clarke had never done anything spontaneous in her life, and there was a first time for everything. 

So she accepted the inquiry and sent back a message to confirm the dates. 

Apparently, she was going to England. 

***  
_Emori_

"Guys, this place is..." Emori said, propping the phone between her shoulder and her ear while she watched the cab disappear down the long, winding driveway. 

"I told you the pictures were too good to be true," Bellamy interrupted, already listing off hundreds of ways for her to get out of the agreement. 

"Trust Bell to immediately go into damage control," Octavia sighed, interrupting him in turn. "It could be a good thing." 

They argued back and forth while Emori dragged her suitcase up the driveway and entered the code into the keypad. She was more than used to the arguing. Octavia and Bellamy had always been like this, probably for far longer than Emori had known them. It was almost comforting now, the harmless bickering. It was just the way they communicated with each other. Granted, the phone calls made it a touch more annoying than in person, but since O moved to Paris, it was the next best thing. 

She'd never imagined a time would come where they would all be in different countries, separated by an ocean in her case. It hadn't occurred to her before she left, that for the first time since she was sixteen, she wouldn't have the people who'd become her family by her side. 

After a few tries, the door chimed and swung open to reveal pristine marble floors, a crystal chandelier, and a staircase straight out of a movie. 

Not even bothering to explain herself, Emori switched the call to Facetime, interrupting whatever Bellamy and Octavia were talking about. This was too crazy to describe. They had to see it for themselves. 

"Holy shit," Octavia whispered when the video connected and the foyer came into view. "If anything, she undersold the place." 

Emori agreed, carrying the phone with her as she wandered through the house, leaving her suitcase by the stairs. Each room was more elaborate than the last, every cushion tastefully paired with the decor, expensive touches around each corner. The hallways were lined with, according to Bellamy, rare paintings dating back to the renaissance era. They looked oddly out of place in the otherwise modern home, like they were put there by Clarke herself instead of a designer. It was the only thing in the entire house that gave a semblance of life to the person who lived here regularly. Everything else, while beautiful, lacked personalization. 

"Okay, slow down," Bellamy chuckled as they neared the kitchen, obviously eager to see what kind of postmodern insanity came along with the mansion. 

Walking as slowly as she could, Emori showed the marble counters, built-in wooden kitchen block, spotless appliances, a beautiful cream stand mixer that would be perfect for baking, and a clear glass fridge that only held almond milk, a half drank iced coffee, and a loaf of bread.

"Who the hell puts bread in the fridge?" Octavia laughed, propping her phone on the counter as she styled her hair, not as interested in the kitchen tour as her brother. 

"Someone who doesn't cook," Bellamy explained, before expressing his disbelief that someone with such an extravagant kitchen seemed like they'd never used it. Always a skeptic, he was weary of Clarke, which wasn't fair considering they never met, but even at face value, it was clear they were very different kinds of people. 

"Be nice to her if you see her," Emori scolded, trying her best to look intimidating in the camera. It didn't work. It never did. From what she could tell from the messages they'd traded, Clarke was just as unhappy as she was. She could probably use a little grace right now. 

"Being nice is a given. Being friends is another story," he replied, just before the girls piled on him and disrupted their call, peppering Emori with questions about the long plane ride and America. 

She already missed them, all of them, but this would be good for her. She needed to learn how to enjoy her own company again, how to navigate the world without Octavia or Bellamy or Roan or anyone else. 

And this house was a great added bonus. 

***

_Clarke_

When the listing said remote, Clarke hadn't been expecting a literal village. But that's exactly what Polis was, a tiny hamlet almost forty minutes outside of London. The air had a sharp chill to it, one that she hadn't felt since she was a small child. It reminded her of Michigan winters, cutting wood with her dad and scooping up snow in her damp mittens. 

Winters always had that effect on her, left a lingering melancholy that Clarke tried to avoid. But for the first time in a long time, it felt good to feel the sharp sting at the bottom of her stomach, the cold wind on the back of her neck as it filtered through the open window. She couldn't remember the last time she'd felt this alive. 

They pulled up to the little cottage at the base of a hill. In the distance, sheep milled around, giving the surrounding area an earthy, farm smell. 

This wasn't Los Angeles. That much was certain. 

But Clarke didn't hate it. 

Sure, the cottage didn't look as large as it had in the photos and the sheep were closer than she would've liked. 

She'd wanted a change, and she'd gotten it. 

A few flakes of snow drifted from the sky as she hauled her suitcase from the trunk, and the cab disappeared down the slushy driveway. 

The cottage was even smaller on the inside than the outside, cozy, with a few rooms, decorated with vintage furniture, hand-blown glass...and math books. Comfortable and lived in, from the looks of it, Emori spent plenty of time at home. The red kettle on the stove, the rotating collection of tea and snacks left in the fridge made Clarke feel a little guilty about the handful of junk in her own kitchen. 

This whole place reminded her of her family cabin, the one that sat empty, save for her grandfather's old checkered couches. It was still too painful to visit, too full of half-baked memories and could haves. If she closed her eyes, she could even see the cow-shaped butter dish on the table, smell zucchini bread baking in the oven. 

Emori was the kind of person Clarke longed to have in her life, someone who didn't seem concerned with anything other than living the best life they could. Absently, she wondered what would make someone leave this cozy world, besides the weather anyway. 

That wasn't part of the deal, of course, but the curiosity remained. Perhaps one day, they would get coffee and compare notes, look back on a time when they both seemed to be at their worst, and reminisce fondly. 

Leaving her luggage stacked neatly in the small bedroom, Clarke bundled herself up, glad she'd thought to bring a few layers, and stepped back out into the evening air. 

She didn't know where she was going, but the entire town was less than a mile long. There weren't many places she could go. 

The cobbled streets didn't suit her heels, and the wind blew so fiercely that Clarke thought her face might peel right off. Her evening stroll wasn't quite as relaxing as she'd hoped. Hoping for some relief from the weather, she dipped into a restaurant tucked in the corner of a row of shops. 

Everything was cozy around here, it seemed. The restaurant had no hostess and was packed full of boisterous people, all talking over one another as a fire crackled in the background. It smelled like fresh-baked bread, and the dim light helped the small room look even more intimate. 

Leaving her coat on a hook by the door, she found a seat at the counter. It wasn't quite a bar, but rather a junction between the open kitchen and dining room. The only other person sitting near her was an older man with a newspaper and a large bowl of soup. Her phone didn't work here, and it was kind of a relief. Maybe she would become the kind of person who ate alone and read a book like that. She'd never done something like this before. If she were to eat alone, it was always in the privacy of her own home, in front of the TV. 

The menu was a thin piece of paper with only a handful of items, all of them had carbs in them, and it felt like a sign to just eat whatever the hell she wanted. 

"What'll you have," a man asked, leaning across from her on the counter. 

And Clarke's brain suddenly couldn't form a coherent thought. 

All she could do was stare blankly at the tanned, curly-haired man in front of her. He looked nothing like any of the men she'd dated in LA. But there was something about the wholesomeness of his smile that made her skin tingle. 

He flashed her an even grin with a raised eyebrow, and Clarke couldn't tell if he was uncomfortable or amused. Either way, this was embarrassing, and she needed to get ahold of herself. 

"What's good?" she asked, turning the menu toward him. 

"Everything." 

"That's not very helpful," she replied, looking back at the menu. 

"I'm a little bias...but since you sound American, I'm going to guess that the shepherd's pie will blow your mind." 

Clarke feigned offense, and they both laughed before she agreed, and he disappeared back into the kitchen. A few moments later, a different man came by and slid a beer in front of her. 

"On the house," he called over his shoulder, continuing down to check on the old man. 

She couldn't remember the last time that she drank a beer, but if she was going to go all out, she might as well dedicate herself to it. 

It was nice, and despite sitting alone and knowing nobody around her, she didn't feel lonely. Instinctively, she reached for her phone and took a picture of her pint glass when she realized there was nothing to check. 

"How touristy of you," the man teased, handing her a basket of bread when he returned, pushing up his sleeves as he leaned on the counter. 

And well—

The tingle on her skin was back. 

"Well, I am a tourist," she shrugged, biting into a steaming roll and then slathering the remaining piece in butter. 

"We don't get many of those around here. Not much to do," he said, taking a piece of bread for himself. 

Apparently, he was joining her. 

"That's exactly why I'm here. I need to do nothing for a while." 

He nodded, taking a plate from one of the waiters and passing it to her. 

“I take it you’re Clarke?” He asked, just as she shoveled a too large and too hot bite of shepherd’s pie into her mouth. 

The shock of this insanely attractive man somehow knowing her name, combined with the burning at the roof of her mouth, sent her scrambling for a glass of water. 

“I...umm...yes?” 

“I’m Bellamy Blake,” he chuckled, pouring her another glass after she’d emptied hers. “Emori’s brother.” 

And, of course, that made more sense than him somehow recognizing her from her writing credits, but it was still a blow to her ego. 

This wasn’t anything more than her host’s brother trying to be friendly. 

Clarke tried not to let her disappointment show, instead peppering him with questions while she dug into the best food she’d eaten in a long time. 

Bellamy lingered throughout her dinner, dipping away every once in a while to serve a customer, but he always returned with another drink or a snack or something else for her to try. They talked about their town, about the restaurant, but he seemed just as unwilling to talk about himself as she was.

They kept the conversation light, and Bellamy made Clarke laugh harder than she had in a long time. It felt good, like she was lighter, free, and finally able to relax. She didn’t even think twice when he brought out a slice of yellow cake topped with a melting layer of ice cream for dessert. 

“Where’s your spoon?” She asked, tapping the side of the bowl with her own. “You can’t expect me to finish this by myself!” 

This had firmly shifted into flirting territory, the restaurant was growing emptier, and Bellamy’s sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, collar unbuttoned past his neckline. It wasn’t often that Clarke came across someone so staggeringly attractive, and she didn’t want to let the opportunity slip away. 

He smirked at her, but produced another spoon from his apron and nodded for her to take the first bite. 

The cake, of course, tasted better than anything Clarke could remember. Light and soft and not too sweet, it was the perfect way to end an incredible meal. She’d really been missing out all these years. 

“You've got a little something,” Bellamy murmured with a soft smirk, voice low now that the restaurant was empty. Gently, he leaned over the counter, wiping a smudge of ice cream from the corner of Clarke’s lip. 

There was a brief pause as the air between them thickened, and his eyes flicked up to meet hers, waiting until she tilted her chin up a fraction of an inch before he ran his thumb down the length of her lip. 

The wave of heat that rushed through Clarke’s body was almost embarrassing. She couldn’t remember the last time she wanted someone so badly, the last time someone made her feel like this. 

Meeting a handsome chef on her first night in England wasn’t part of her plan, but she’d come here to finally learn how to let go of plans. Perhaps this was the universe’s way of telling her that the time for her first one night stand had finally arrived. 

So instead of letting herself debate the prospect back and forth, she just leaned forward and kissed him. And thankfully, he kissed her back, almost pulling her over the counter and into their half-eaten dessert. 

Without missing a beat, he swept the plate and everything else off to the side and helped her climb over the ledge. 

“I swear I didn’t plan this,” Bellamy murmured into her skin, stepping into the cradle of her legs as he leaned in to kiss her once again. 

And she hadn’t either, but oddly, the wave of regret never came. 

Clarke finally gave in to the urge to rake her fingers through his curls, tilting her head back as he trailed kissed down her neck, fingers fumbling with the buttons on her blouse. 

“A happy accident then,” she moaned, skin prickling when his teeth scraped her pulse point. 

It was all too much and not enough at the same time, she wanted more, but she was also acutely aware of the massive window facing the street.

“I’d ask you to come back to my place, but I don’t think you want to have sex in your sister’s bed,” Clarke chuckled, hoping the suggestion wasn’t too forward. 

He let out a low moan, pulling her in even closer, bucking his hips against hers. The friction was perfect, and she wanted more. This wasn’t anything like how things were with Finn. It felt like Bellamy was the only person in the world, like if she couldn’t get closer, she would drown. 

“Beds are overrated,” he murmured, pulling away to run his teeth over her earlobe. 

And as if she weighed nothing, he swept her up in his arms, fingers flexing against her ass as he carried her. 

“You’re—fuck,” he moaned, kissing her again, deep and probing, and the sound Clarke made in response was embarrassingly needy. “Incredible.” 

“Please, Bellamy,” she whispered, cupping his cheeks in her hands, pulling away just enough to meet his eyes, to bump their noses together. 

His grasp on her body slipped as they moved up a flight of stairs, and Clarke took the opportunity to finally push his shirt off his shoulders. The second it hit the ground, she worked to unbuckle his belt. 

By the time they made it to an office at the top of the stairs, their clothes were long forgotten. 

She stepped out of her skirt the second the door clicked shut, kicking it off to the side next to Bellamy’s jeans. 

The room wasn’t huge, just a couch, a desk, and an unused fireplace full of old books. It felt oddly intimate, standing in the dark room with him, and Clarke suddenly felt nervous, self-conscious at how quickly it all progressed. 

But before she could cover herself with her arms, Bellamy reached out to her, taking her hand. 

“Come here,” he asked, voice just above a whisper as he stepped back to the couch, leading her. 

He sat with a soft thud, sinking into the cushions, and looked up at her expectantly. His hair was mussed, tan cheeks tinted pink, dark eyes somehow even darker, and all Clarke could think about was how beautiful he was. 

Of course, she couldn’t tell him that, but she knew that if she didn’t let things play out the way she desperately wanted to, she would regret it. 

So she climbed into his lap, legs bracketing his hips, and with only the thin fabric of their underwear between them, she sank down. 

“Do you want this?” He asked, running his hands up and down her thighs, lips brushing against the tops of her breasts. 

And honestly, she’d never wanted anyone this much. 

“Fuck me, please, Bellamy,” she said in response, unhooking her bra and letting it fall to the couch. If there was ever a time to be shameless, it was now, so she ground down into his lap and combed her fingers through her own hair, giving him a show. 

He obliged, flipping them over and burying his face in her neck, sucking a mark into her skin, and Clarke knew she would regret it tomorrow, but for now, it was exactly what she wanted. Even if it was just for tonight, she wanted this beautiful man to be hers. 

***

_Emori_

“Dammit,” Emori groaned, rubbing her temple with her thumb when the espresso machine churned out a watery cup full of grounds. She was entirely too caffeine-deprived to deal with this, and the machine’s hatred for her wasn’t helping. 

While exciting at first glance, Clarke’s house wasn’t practical—at all. Most of the pillows were decorative, the coffee maker might as well be a spaceship, all the glass surfaces were already covered in fingerprints, and even the cat’s bed didn’t seem particularly comfortable. The only perk was that the windows would be perfect for writing equations on, but she didn’t want to risk a stain on glass that cost more than her entire life. 

After the machines sputtered out a milk-based, foam covered disaster, she called it quits, shoving her feet into her shoes and slamming the door on her way out. 

Back home, wearing crop tops and leggings without anything over it would garner her weird looks. But here, she almost felt overdressed. 

The nearest coffee shop to Clarke’s house was barely a block away, but according to Google, there was an even better shop a little bit further down. 

Emori enjoyed her leisurely walk, soaking in the warm weather and a healthy dose of sun. Los Angeles so far, while incredibly intimidating and overwhelming, seemed like the right place to find her voice in the world. 

It truly felt like a place where you could disappear in a crowd. 

And after a lifetime in a town where everyone knew her name, the anonymity was refreshing. 

She ordered a fancy latte with expensive non-dairy milk and sipped on it while she browsed the used bookstore next door. 

Three vintage math textbooks and a signed Malcolm Gladwell novel later, Emori ordered another latte in a different flavor and took the long way home. 

This was absolutely a lifestyle she could get used to. 

All her anxiety from earlier faded away, the buzz of caffeine settling comfortably under her skin as she planned out the rest of her day and realized she had all the time in the world to snuggle with Clarke’s cat and read. 

Granted, not the most exciting afternoon, but this was her time to live her life on her terms. 

She walked past the gated entrance to Clarke’s neighborhood, nodding at the guard and continuing down the sidewalk. The houses were beautiful, designed in different styles with long winding driveways and landscaped topiaries. 

In her attempt to sink into the moment and really enjoy it, she walked straight past the house and up the neighbor’s driveway. It only occurred to her after she saw the Italian style facade that she needed to turn around. 

When she made it back to the correct house, she realized that she walked past the driveway not because the landscaping distracted her but because there was a red convertible parked at the driveway's end. One that definitely hadn’t been there when she left. 

So either Clarke was so rich that she received spontaneous car deliveries or someone stopped by to visit. 

Someone who probably wouldn’t be very impressed by Emori’s messy bun, Primark activewear, and collection of threadbare math books. 

“Thank God, Griffin, what the fuck—“ a man snapped, pushing his sunglasses into his hair as he turned to face her, only to freeze when he realized that she wasn’t who he expected. 

Whoever he was, he looked exactly like what Emori had imagined a man from LA would look like; tall and lean with perfectly even teeth, coiffed hair, and the tightest skinny jeans she’d ever seen. 

“You’re not Clarke,” he said slowly, running a hand through his hair. “I umm, sorry I swore at you.” 

He looked genuinely apologetic, his irritation from earlier completely melting from his face. 

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it,” she said, suddenly unsure of what to do with her hands or with her face. She’d never been very good around attractive men. 

“Oh, you’re British,” he chuckled, switching to the worst accent Emori had ever heard. It landed somewhere between cockney and a cartoon duck. 

“I really hope you’re not an actor because that was really bad,” she teased, hoping she read the situation correctly and he wouldn’t be offended.

“You think I’m hot enough to be an actor? You flatter me,” he smirked, twirling his keys around his pointer finger in a way that made her skin tingle. “I’m a sound editor, who was supposed to meet Clarke to show her the mix for her newest movie.” 

At the confirmation that he was not a serial killer, Emori gestured for him to follow her the rest of the way up the driveway. The books were starting to get heavy. It couldn’t hurt to invite him inside, especially considering that Clarke forgot about him. 

He didn’t seem to mind, following along without question as she explained the switch and that the person he came here looking for was out of the country. 

It wasn’t until she’d offered him a coffee that he finally introduced himself as Murphy. 

“What kind of name is Murphy?” She asked, mentally beating herself when she realized that the coffee maker was still her enemy. 

“It’s my last name.” 

“Well, what’s your first name?” 

“Nobody calls me by my first name.” 

“Is it like a top-secret kind of thing? Ohhh, are you in witness protection?!” Emori said dramatically, wiggling her eyebrows before she smacked the shiny chrome machine with her fist. 

Murphy smirked at her again, and it really wasn’t fair how much it suited him. In her opinion, he was absolutely hot enough to be an actor. He rounded the counter and nudged her gently out of the way, expertly flipping the buttons on the machine and filling a compartment she hadn’t seen with coffee. 

“It’s John,” he murmured as he reached around her to click the button that whirred it to life. “John Murphy.” 

The air filled with the scent of fresh coffee and the combination of it with John Murphy's proximity made Emori’s head spin. 

“So, do you want to hear the album? Might as well show someone,” he asked, offering her the first cup before taking a sip. 

“Isn’t it like a secret or something?” 

The idea of drinking a third cup of coffee seemed appealing, but Emori knew she shouldn’t. Instead, she retrieved an orange juice from the fridge and debated whether or not to offer to make breakfast. It felt like a weird thing to do for someone she just met, but John didn’t seem like he believed in pretenses. 

“It’s kind of a secret, but I don’t think anyone cares about the soundtrack for ‘Cookie Queen Christmas Adventure’ or whatever this movie is actually called.” 

“Well, in that case, I’d love to,” she grinned, grateful that the breakfast question answered itself. 

Maybe this was the start of a friendship, maybe she would be able to spend her holiday with someone other than a cat named Jinkies, either way, she had a good feeling about John Murphy.

**Author's Note:**

> GUYS! I'm so excited about this! It's mainly prewritten so it will be posted in full by the end of the week and it'll be three parts spanning their adventures! I hope y'all like it because I love it so far! And as we know, I love some Bellarke and Memori fun! 
> 
> Please let me know what you think, I adore hearing from you and AO3 comments are my favorite way to get to know people. I love you guys so much, thank you for all your support in 2020, it made all the difference. Also, I know nothing about the UK so I'm sorry if this fic is painfully American. 
> 
> As mentioned above, this fic was written in part of an initiative called t100writers4BLM. We are fulfilling prompts in exchange for donations to BLM related causes! It's an awesome way to get prompts you want to read and donate to an awesome cause! You can check out our info here and if the link didn't work bc I'm an incompetent idiot then you can find us on Tumblr and Twitter. You can also find me on Tumblr @Nakey-cats-take-bathss 
> 
> Stay well, stay safe, you are loved :) Till next time!


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